This could have been avoided. After taking the photograph I was tempted to count the rings and find out how old this oak was. People would have stared but that isn't what stopped me. I knew it would just get me more frustrated and angry and sad. I had to move on and get to work. I grew up in an amazing 1808 house in Amagansett, NY. With a long addition to the back added in the 1890's it was a boarding house at the turn of the century. Supposedly Grover Cleveland stayed there, among other noted and wealthy men and women from decades and centuries gone by. There were always rumors the house was haunted and I would not contest that. A man in a top hat and tails would pace the upstairs hallway on occasion when I was in the big house alone. My mother spoke about a female figure she was sure she saw. My parents bought the house because of its history and the power of its grandeur. They customized every part of it and made it their dream home. The shed in the back yard became my fathers office, complete with recycled bowling alley lanes for floors and precious stained glass salvaged in New England. When searching for wide floor boards under the linoleum tiles my parents found dirt and the remains of an old well once right outside the backdoor of the original house. They customized the kitchen with aged brick, and put plexiglass and a light over the well to preserve it. They framed the collection of items found in the foundation and hung them in the living room where holiday feasts would occur for 30-plus family and friends. I was raised in that house, as were my brothers, as were our cousins, friends, and the live-in babysitters who cared for us when The Royale Fish was still around. I still think of Bill Kitses hiding beer under my bedroom window before they would go down to the beach at night. I remember my first taste of Jack Daniels on the front porch when Nisse turned 21. Eventually there would be a pool in the backyard where my brother and I would go skinny dipping during a major hurricane one fall. I remember so many warm days and hearty laughs and good times in that house and on that property. The size of the fastigiate beech and Japanese maple on the sloping acre still amaze me.
In 1995 my parents were back to being a duo, with us kids now grown and living far and wide in homes of our own. They sold the house to a couple they liked initially. They were young and starting a family and my folks are always ones to be supportive and optimistic. My parents saw a great life for them in that house as they had and were happy to pass the legacy along. They would not have been able to forecast the lack of care the house would suffer. Nor would they know how the family would have their own tough times. Suicide had never crossed my mothers mind, especially with those two beautiful little girls.
Next the house would go up for sale again. I walked in it for the first time in years and it was a battered shell of its former self. The 19th Century graffiti was still in the attic, and the floor boards moan was still comforting, but it was different. How could someone just ignore two hundred years of history and let this place fall into such decline? It would take a lot to get it back into shape, but my mother, now a real estate broker, once again had the optimism that some good soul would step up to the challenge. She tried like hell.
In the end it would go to auction. The highest bidder took all, and do you know what they did? They tore it down. Built in 1808, added onto in the 1890's, a home and history lesson for locals and guests for 200 years, and some soul-less fucks tore it down. On Memorial Day Rory, my best friend growing up, called my cell phone. He was sitting in the driveway, looking at nothing but the trees we used to sit under when we talked about the girls we had crushes on. "I'm in your driveway, and dude, there's nothing but driveway...", he trailed off. The silence in the voicemail conveyed the surrealness of the moment. I didn't have the heart to call him back. What would I have said? I began a number of letters to the editor of my hometown paper. I knew the Rattrays would appreciate a good piece about the house they too came to know and love and partied in a number of times. Every letter would end up too angry and biased and bitter so nothing ever showed up in the mailbox of the East Hampton Star. Not to mention I never knew how to finish the thought. How is it that some people can so easily throw away years of history and lore? Is that not the fabric that gives life its rich texture? Is it not through history that we learn who we are and where we are going? I've become so tired of this lazy and utterly self-centered mentality. I can't help but think what a disservice to the generations that will follow.
Everything has become so disposable in our culture. And not just razor blades and milk bottles. Well constructed furniture gathers dust in garages and antique shops while people drive to Ikea to buy painted particle board that is easily assembled. Why fix it when you can buy a new one for the same cost? Why work twice as hard to rebuild when you can just mow it down and hire cheap to rebuild something else that won't last nearly as long?
I guess some people get that. I don't.
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